


Home

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Sherlock, Early Days, Hurt John, M/M, Snuggling, Whining, concussion, impaired speech, tender love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows it's always for John. It will always be for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

"Shh?"

In the darkness, the urgent whisper startles him from his thoughts, drawing him upright in his chair to curl one hand over a trembling shoulder.

"I'm here," he says in reply, relief filling him as the sound of his abbreviated name displaces the empty iciness that has resided far too long in his chest. Tentative fingers feather across his cheek when he leans closer to touch their foreheads together, and for a moment they simply breath.

"See...you?"

The small, frightened voice alerts Sherlock to the now familiar need, and without hesitation, he obeys. The light from his phone bathes them in its soft glow, allowing him to see wide blue eyes looking back at him.

"It's all right. You're safe."

"Where?"

"Hospital."

"Why?" The single word is drawn out on a hushed sigh.

"There was an explosion. You were very near, too near."

"You...okay?" John asks, hugging his neck and kissing him with more than a little desperation.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says against John's mouth, "but you have a concussion. It's temporarily effected your vision and hearing and you may have difficulty putting words together, but with time you are expected to fully recover."

In past hours Sherlock's given John multiple reassurances, but this time, he seems to understand. He will tell John a thousand times if that's what he needs to feel safe.

"How...long?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness, restless, murmuring, whispering unintelligibly, calling out for me at times for almost ten hours. You sensed that I was near, yes?"

John nods slowly.

"I held you in my arms. You said you loved me," he tells John, clearing his raw and broken voice. Swallowing hard, he offers his first confident smile in what feels like an age.

"Yes, love you."

"I love you, too," he replies, kissing John once more.

"Sh?"

John's dark eyes narrow, perhaps, Sherlock thinks, to bring the world into focus. He squeezes the shoulder beneath his palm, curling his other hand over John's smaller one.

"Yes, John?"

"Home?"

"Soon."

"Home, go...home," John says. His voice has a new edge to it that resembles anger.

Sherlock pushes himself to his feet to stretch his stiffened back.

"No!" 

Before Sherlock can lean forward, John grasps his wrist, drawing him down until he settles on the edge of the bed. Gazing at John, he allows the last shards of icy dread to melt away from his heart.

"It's all right, John. It's all right."

"Don't go. Don't leave...without me."

Sherlock's heart clenches and skips a beat the instant John's eyes brim with tears. He catches them with a tender swipe of his thumb, wishing he could so easily wipe away the bruises on the brave heart that beats inside his soldier's chest. He well knows there is one memory, although long forgiven, which will never fade.

"Even if you ask me to go, I won't leave you. Together is the only way we will leave this dismal place."

"Home?"

"When you are well enough."

"Home."

Sherlock smiles at the urgent, whispered plea, and drops another soft kiss to John's mouth. "Rest now, try to sleep."

Pulling his chair as close as possible to the side of the bed, he lowers himself into it. "I'll be here when you wake. Turning off the light now, John."

"Sh?"

Sherlock grins into the darkness. "Yes, John?"

"Please?"

Sherlock hears the break in John's voice, feels the trembling hand that searches, then settles at the center of his chest.

"Home? Please?"

It isn't necessary for Sherlock to see John's face to know his doctor's desperation; he can feel it in the fingers twitching at his shirt. Bringing his phone to life once more, his fingers dance over the keys.

"Mycroft." He uses the speaker to include John in the conversation.

"Sherlock, have you lost all sense of time?"

"The British Government never sleeps, Mycroft."

"Be that as it may, brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of your obscenely late call?"

"John wants to go home. A cab is not convenient, we'll need a car."

Sherlock knows John hears him, but whether John hears Mycroft isn't clear until a frown gives him away.

After a brief pause, Mycroft sighs. "I will be there within the hour."

"Mycroft, repeat in text."

When Mycroft responds as requested, Sherlock tilts the phone, but John's blue eyes close with a shake of his head. 

"Mycroft texted that he will be here within the hour," he says directly against John's ear.

John nods, leaning into his touch.

"Everything will be just fine, John. I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. Now let's get you out of that mortifying hospital gown."

John pushes himself up, but he's wobbly and loose-limbed and sitting up makes him dizzy enough to seek support. Sherlock gives him points for trying.

"John, I think you'd better lie down and let me dress you."

"Sher..?"

After hearing the newer abbreviated version of his name, Sherlock  
smiles, but is concerned by John's frown and his obvious frustration.

"It's fine, John, you'll find all the letters soon."

Easing John back onto his pillow, Sherlock leans close to his ear once again. "I'm going to get your clothes from the cupboard. I won't be far. Will you be all right?"

"Yes."

Sherlock draws his finger across John's soft lips. The doctor's blue eyes disappear beneath fluttering lids and a soft sigh escapes his throat.

"That's my brave boy. I'll just be a moment."

"Not a...boy."

The detective shakes his head at John's annoyed tone, then turns away to hide his grin. John is in there, just in shadow.

John appears to follow his movements, but Sherlock is certain it's the phone light he follows. He quickly gathers clothes and shoes, laying them at the foot of the bed and returns to John's side. The doctor reaches for him, circling both wrists with fidgeting fingers.

"I'm here, John, I won't leave you. Since you refuse to settle down to sleep, I'm going to turn on the overhead light now, so close your eyes."  
Further shielding John's eyes with his hand, he stretches toward the switch above the bed.

"Open your eyes slowly so they'll adjust, then I'll remove my hand."

John squints up at him with just a touch of a smile on his lips.

"Fuzzy."

The detective brushes one finger against John's nearly three day beard. "Yes, you are."

John huffs. "No, you...look fuzzy."

Sherlock chuckles in his deep baritone, and John giggles just a bit as he lifts a shaky hand to grasp a handful of dark curls.

To maintain as much doctorly dignity as possible, Sherlock maneuvers John into his pants, T-shirt and socks beneath the sheet. Once the sheet is tossed to the floor, sliding the jeans up John's legs to his thighs is easy.

"Can you lift your bum so I can get your jeans up the rest of the way?"

John does as Sherlock requests and in seconds, the jeans are up and over his hips, zipped and buttoned. John seems to come out of his lethargy a bit more and pushes his arms into the sleeves of his jumper once it is over his head.

Leaning in, Sherlock presses another gentle kiss to John's mouth. He grins and his heart races when dark eyes settle on his face and he sees more focus in John's sleepy gaze. This time, John seeks Sherlock's lips to return his kiss.

"There you are."

"Mmm."

"Just rest now."

~~

Never anything but punctual, Mycroft pushes open the door forty-five minutes later, and approaches the bed where they lay wrapped around each other.

Sherlock nods, easing himself away from John to stand beside his brother. Beckoning Mycroft to the far side of the room, he speaks in whispers to allow John to sleep as long as possible.

"John is unsteady but more aware than just two hours ago. There should be no problem secreting him away from here."

"That won't be necessary, Sherlock. I was able to contact John's physician. We are fortunate that he is on duty at the present time."

"So we can leave now?"

"Not just yet. Dr. Scott is bringing the appropriate papers shortly. John will be released into your care with your signature should he be unable to sign for himself."

Just as Mycroft finishes speaking, the door swings wide to admit Dr. Scott, who immediately approaches the elder Holmes. The two shakes hands. Sherlock frowns.

"Mycroft, it's been such a long time. Are you well?"

"Quite well, Dr. Scott, thank you. You've met my brother, Sherlock."

The doctor turns to acknowledge his presence. "Yes, Mycroft has informed me that you will be caring for Dr. Watson?"

"Yes." Sherlock's scrutiny is enough to silence the doctor, if not force him back a step.

"Yes, very good, well then, shall we move along?"

Sherlock ignores the obvious chill from the doctor, no doubt from their earlier disagreement regarding John's care.

"I would like to perform a brief examination prior to release. Although it's quite irregular to release a patient in the middle of the night, we do on occasion, make such allowances."

"Apologies, Dr. Scott," Mycroft says, no doubt in an effort to alleviate the tension.

Sherlock keeps an intense watch on Dr. Scott while he checks the monitor for John's blood pressure and listens to his heart. John does not respond when the doctor checks his pupil reaction, he simply sleeps on, and the longer the older man lingers over him, the more annoyance lodges a knot in his chest.

"I'd like you to wake him. It's always better for a loved one, rather than a stranger, to wake a patient. I will ask him a few questions and if he answers satisfactorily, I will have you sign the discharge sheet and you can be on your way." 

"Dr. Scott, whether or not John answers to your satisfaction, we are leaving here within the next few minutes. John has asked me to take him home, and I intend to honor that request. I promise you he will rest just as comfortably, if not more so, at home." Sherlock wants to add "in our bed," but he bites back his retort.

Sherlock and the doctor study each other for several long seconds, but neither man speaks. He throws a quick glance at Mycroft, who raises an eyebrow, and the subject is closed as far as Sherlock is concerned.

Deleting his annoyance with Dr. Scott, Sherlock approaches the side of the bed and for a moment, he hesitates to wake John. He struggles with the overwhelming need to wrap his doctor in a blanket and carry him to the safety of Baker Street. Finally deciding that causing a uproar would serve no purpose other than delaying their departure, Sherlock allows himself a controlled sigh and rests his palm on the crown of John's head.

"John?"

The simple touch of fingertip along John's jaw is enough to elicit a sleepy response. 

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective grins at his partner. "You found the rest of my name, John."

Pressing their foreheads together, Sherlock caresses John's cheek with his elegant fingers.

"The doctor is here, as is Mycroft."

"Home...now?"

"Soon."

John frowns, searching for Sherlock's hand, restless until Sherlock curls long fingers around shorter ones. The detective notes that John struggles to come fully awake, or at least as awake as is possible.

"John, Dr. Scott would like to ask you a few questions before we leave."

"Home?"

"Yes, John, we're going home soon."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I need to go!"

Without a word, Sherlock scoops John off the bed and carries him to the small loo, closing the door firmly behind them. When they return minutes later, John is on his feet, supported by an arm around his waist. Depositing his doctor safely on the bed, Sherlock sits beside him, holding his wobbly head against his shoulder.

Mycroft smiles briefly when Sherlock glances in his direction. It is his indulgent smile, at which Sherlock usually bristles, but this time he knows that he and Mycroft are of the same mind. John's health is most important and he needs to be home.

"Dr. Watson, can you tell me your birthdate?"

The knot in the detective's chest tightens when John doesn't answer right away and seems at a loss for several moments before lifting his head from Sherlock's shoulder. He repeats Dr. Scott's question, hoping his familiar voice will draw John from his confusion.

John stares at him, his dark eyes locked on Sherlock's pale ones.

"September eight?"

"And the year, John?"

"Mmm. Seventy-one?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson would respond more easily to you than to me. Here is my list of questions."

Sherlock peruses the list to check the accuracy of the anticipated answers. He shakes his head at the inanity of it, releasing a long-suffering sigh of disdain.

"Your full name, John?"

From the expression on John's face and the blown-wide eyes, Sherlock knows his doctor is afraid that one wrong answer will keep him a prisoner in this hospital.

"John...H-hamish...W-wat-son."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I..."

"Take all the time you need, John. It doesn't matter if you answer incorrectly, I am taking you home shortly. This is just unfortunate protocol."

John nods, relaxes a bit, leaning into the warmth and safety of Sherlock's body.

"Explosion. Fell. con...cussion."

Deviating from the printed list, Sherlock asks simpler questions to hurry the proceedings.

"John, do you know who that man is, the one standing by the door?"

"My-croft?"

"Yes, that is his name, but who is he?"

"The Brit-ish Gov-ment?"

Sherlock drops the list on the bed and circles his arms around John.

"Well done. It's time for us to get you home."

"If you have any questions or if he regresses," Dr. Scott interjects.

"We know the signs, Dr. Scott and John is, after all, a physician."

"Very well," the doctor murmurs under his breath, offering Sherlock the release papers.

"John, are you steady enough to sign the release, or shall I, as your partner, sign it for you?"

"Sherlock."

The detective ignores the warning hidden in his brother's annoyed address. He reasons that a bit of sarcasm directed at the doctor is not at all inappropriate this one time.

"Both?"

"Both it is."

Sherlock presses the pen into John's left hand, splaying his own fingers beneath the chart board to which is clipped the release.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Where?"

"Here, next to my finger. Your name is important, the line is not."

Sherlock accepts the pen and signs his own name just beneath John's shaky scrawl.

"Thank you, Dr. Scott for the care you have provided. It's time for us to go home now, yes, John?"

Sherlock is aware that his additional sarcasm is not lost on either Dr. Scott or Mycroft.

John nods, but does not speak.

"Let's get your shoes on. Can you sit or would you rather recline?"

Before John can respond, Mycroft moves to the bedside to support him with an arm around his shoulders.

The detective isn't often surprised at his brother's actions, but surprised he is as he hurries to fasten John's shoes before Dr. Scott can change his mind. Both he and his brother bundle John into his coat. Mycroft steps back which allows Sherlock to keep John upright by hugging him to disguise his instability.

"Time to go home, John."

John tips his head back to gaze at the detective. "Ready, Sher...lock."

Guiding John off the edge of the bed and onto his feet, Sherlock waits for just a moment to ensure John is able to stand on his own. A faint now, if Dr. Scott were to see it, would complicate John's release.

"Sherlock, John, shall we set off? I'm certain Dr. Scott has other patients who need his care."

Mycroft's warning is clear to only Sherlock.

John's stiff-legged gait to the door is disguised by Mycroft's position to block Dr. Scott's line of sight. Mycroft is on their side for this moment. Odd, but Sherlock is grateful once again. And surprised. Once again. Under other circumstances, Mycroft's behavior would have been tedious. And hateful.

Silent and lumbering, John makes a valiant effort to remain upright until the lift doors close. With a groan, he turns to Sherlock, resting his forehead against the detective's chest.

"Head hurts."

Sherlock bends his knees, lifts John into his arms, and holds him against his body.

"The car is waiting on level one, Sherlock."

"Home soon?"

"Yes, John, we'll be home soon."

"Home."

John nuzzles against his shoulder, a motion not lost on Mycroft, which Sherlock notices with petulant disgust. He can hear Mycroft's I told you so's rattling around in his head, but he refuses to allow his brother's smug appraisal to annoy him, smiling instead at how childlike is John's behavior.

As promised, the infamous black car is waiting for them. With a minimum of effort, Sherlock tucks his partner into the seat, then slides in to pull John against his side.

"Your possessiveness of John suits you, Sherlock, in a rather incongruous manner. Who would have guessed?"

Of their own will and in direct confirmation of his brother's observation, Sherlock's arms tighten around John. He averts his gaze to avoid the knowing smirk dancing across his brother's face.

Mycroft is not well acquainted with a chuckle, but much to Sherlock's annnoyance, he allows one to break the silence. The detective rolls his eyes and continues to face the window, but soon drops his gaze to the sleeping face nestled against his chest.

He wonders what he has done in his life to deserve the love of this man in his arms. John is his most precious...precious. Is there such a word in his vocabulary? After a moment of thought, yes, precious suits. As the recipient of such a gift, he is the most fortunate of the most difficult of men. He hugs John tighter against himself, John's soft grunt his reward.

To say that he is relieved is more than an apt description of how Sherlock feels when the car stops, as is, he presumes, Mycroft, but John sleeps on, oblivious to their arrival at Baker Street.

"John?"

When there is no response, Sherlock draws a fingertip along John's cheek.

"John, we're home now. You need to wake up. I can't carry you up the narrow stairs."

Several mumbles later, John attempts and fails to sit up, curling into Sherlock once more.

Sherlock tightens his arms for a moment longer, then opens the door, allowing his brother to steady John until he steps out. Thankful the doctor is small enough to easily maneuver him out onto the pavement, he wraps a strong arm around John's waist to support him as they approach the door.

It is just past four in the morning and much too early for Mrs. Hudson to be up and about. Sherlock knows stealth is imperative to get John upstairs and settled before their landlady knows they are home. As long as the flat is quiet, she will not knock on their door until late morning, giving John more time to sleep and perhaps push off more of his lethargy and confusion.

The struggle to the flat door is exhausting, far more for John than for Sherlock. By the time they reach the turn in the stairs, John is shaking uncontrollably and no longer able to lift his feet without stumbling. When Mycroft comes up behind them, his hand on the doctor's lower back and a firm grip on his arm, their safe arrival is assured.

"Tea and toast, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock accepts his brother's offer with a nod of his head while he removes The doctor's coat and shoes and tucks him into the corner of the sofa.

"John?"

"Hmm? Sher...lock?"

"We're home."

"Home?"

"Yes, home. Baker Street."

John lifts his head to glance around the sitting room. What he sees isn't clear, but he remains calm. That he is nearly asleep is an obvious benefit.

"Sherrr...lock?"

"I'm right here."

"Head all wrong."

"I know. It will pass."

Mycroft sets a tray on the table in front of them and sits at the far end of the sofa.

"It would be advantageous for the both of you to eat and drink and go to bed. You are both exhausted, and, if I may say so, more pale than usual."

Sherlock had no witty response. Mycroft, after all, occasionally means well. Perhaps his own lack of sleep is weighing on him. How odd, he decides and shrugs.

Tasting the tea for warmth and proper preparation, Sherlock holds the cup to John's mouth and watches him gulp it down. Replacing the cup on the tray, he tears a slice of toast and offers it to the doctor who chews it slowly while resting his head against the back of the sofa. Quickly finishing his own toast and swallowing a bit of his own tea, Sherlock offers his remaining sweetened tea to John who is too weary to notice the difference.

"Thank you, Mycroft." 

"Oh, it has been my pleasure. I will take these to the kitchen and be on my way. Shall I lock the doors when I depart?"

"Please."

"Do take care, little brother, and contact me if I can be of further assistance, preferably at a more reasonable hour."

"Goodnight, Mycroft."

"Yes, goodnight, rather, good day, Sherlock. John."

"Come, John, time for you to go to bed."

With his belly filled, John hiccoughs and huffs a laugh, although Sherlock doubts he knows what it is that amuses him. On his feet, he sways and tips forward, like a child learning to walk. Once tucked against Sherlock's side, he shuffles along toward the bedroom.

"Sherrr...lock?"

"I know John, we'll visit the toilet."

In the bedroom, Sherlock undresses his doctor and guides him onto the bed, tucking an extra pillow under his head and neck. Dropping his own creased and rumpled clothing beside the bed before climbing over John and settling down beside him, he sighs with relief once the duvet is tucked around them.

"Sherrr...lock?"

"Hmmm?"

"Home?"

"Yes, we're home and warm and comfortable. I believe we'll remain in this bed for the rest of the week."

"Okay."

"How are you feeling?"

"Brilliant."

"Fibbing, John."

"Sher...lock?"

"Hush, John. You need to sleep."

John reaches out, as is his nature, whether deeply asleep or just slipping away, to rest his palm upon Sherlock's chest, over his heart. 

"Need you." John's request is barely a breath to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock smiles every time John expresses his need to be held,and this time is no exception. Gathering close the small but sturdy body, chest to chest, John's head tucked beneath his chin, he captures his soldier in the cocoon of his long arms and legs.

"Home," John murmurs, wriggling closer.

"Mmm," Sherlock replies, holding John even tighter. Indeed, no matter where they are, as long as they are together, they are home.

~~

Mycroft stands beside the bed for just a moment, fixing the duvet more firmly around the two men. He allows his hand to rest on the crown of his brother's head, then John's. A faint smile twitches over his lips. Stepping away toward the door, he pauses to look back one last time. Releasing an unintentional and unaccustomed sigh, he shakes his head.

"It's okay to care, Mikey," Sherlock softly calls to him, using their mother's nickname for his brother just to irritate.

"Yes, quite."


End file.
